Tomb of Che Guevara_Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine

Freedom is at the edge of a sheet of paper,

at the tip of a rifle without a telescope, at the tip

of a blank cartridge. freedom is a strap

that holds you like a poet or a hare under the

useless gold of the Moon where walk two lonely men

at the time of clicks and condemnations.

at the time of thrones and uncertainties love

protests with a weapon otherwise repressive

that the bullet lost in Africa and that howls

mocks the insistence of the clouds and lifts

the innermost beings of the men resiscovered in this park

that is the magma of precarious insults and aborted orgasms.

 

at the time in which a soiled asia bitten but not extinct

by the clasp of weapons and their morose teeth

at a time in which the empty cracked wall of the Earth

dishevelled at its nodule where god meansured his death,

at a time of interstellar cycles and of wildlife

of harsh kiff, of silver herring and nimbus of napalm.

 

che guevara rearms the ounce of proletarian blood

captured by the yankee in the streets and pulverizes

 

with his dreams and his berets slugging

the militant misery of the americas

for whom combat is in that ounce of blood

lost like a warhead in the hell of the bystander!

 

at the time the commoner summoned to obliterate

this prison from which issues the cry of the islanders:

masks chained to the spear and to the rifle

shed the rude life of glairy suns

in Africa concentration camps:

freedom is at the edge of a shet of paper.

 

at the tip of a rifle where black and white

yellowed by a bible forged in coblat

strike at the enemy in his vaults and gather up

the cancerous remains of liberties denied,

dirtied bruised but laughing at the engineers

of calm death in hallucinated cables.

 

(translated by Georgina Jimenez) 1971

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